Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  'Party time.' Muzza snorted scornfully as he lit up a cigarette. 'Me? Partying?' The cynical tone was back.

  'Yeah. Why not?'

  'Partying involves women, doesn't it?'

  'A pub crawl doesn't, mate.' Oh shit, Mike thought. He hoped Muzza wasn't about to become aggressive. It often happened quite quickly and for no apparent reason. 'We'd really like you to come, Muz. The four of us, you know – the old gang.'

  'Nah, wouldn't want to cramp your style. Christ, even Casanova McAllister'd have trouble scoring with a cripple in tow.' He dragged on his cigarette and the laugh turned into a cough. 'Beats me why you want to root around when you could have had a woman like Jo though,' he said, his tone condemnatory.

  Mike heaved a sigh. 'I couldn't have had a woman like Jo, Muz. It wasn't a matter of choice, and you know it. She walked out on me, remember?'

  He didn't want to talk about Jo, and certainly not while Muz was in his present state. In fact, he'd assiduously avoided any conversation on the subject following Muzza's initial reaction.

  Muzza had been horrified when he'd heard that Jo had dropped out of uni and disappeared.

  Mike had called around just a few days after Jo's disappearance, and Muzza had been pleased to see him arrive on his own. When Mike had Spud and Pembo with him, they'd chat about other mates and the gang from uni – who was doing what, who sent their regards – and Muzza would have to pretend an interest he didn't possess, trying to act 'normal' while he sucked back his cigarettes and downed his Corio. Perhaps with Mike on his own, they might be able to skip some of the small talk.

  But small talk had been the last thing on Mike's mind. 'Do you know where she is?' he'd asked.

  'Who?' Muzza had been completely bewildered.

  'Jo. She's gone.'

  Mike had been pinning his last hopes on Muzza. Jo was fond of Muz. She'd visited him regularly when he was in hospital, preferring to go on her own rather than with the boys. He'd hoped that Muzza might have some answers. Plainly he didn't.

  'She's dropped out of uni and gone to Sydney.' He hadn't bothered pulling any punches, there didn't seem any point. 'Nobody knows where the hell she is.'

  Muzza's reaction had been extraordinary. He'd turned on Mike in direct accusation.

  'What did you do to her?'

  'Not a bloody thing.' Mike had taken offence. 'She just left without a word.'

  'And you didn't go after her? You didn't do anything?'

  'How could I? She left no address, no phone number, nothing. No-one knows where she is. What am I supposed to do, for God's sake?'

  Muzza had glared, a mixture of incredulity and condemnation, and had been about to say something, but Mike had been in no mood for further cross-questioning.

  'I don't know why she went, or where she went, she didn't tell me.'

  His tone had called a definite halt to the conversation, and he'd left not long afterwards.

  The topic had been avoided during Mike's visits over the ensuing two months, particularly as Spud had been with him each time, but Mike knew that Muzza firmly believed he was responsible for Jo's disappearance.

  'That's the only trouble with you, mate,' Muzza said now, grinding his cigarette out amongst the butts in the overflowing ashtray. 'You can be a callous bastard when it comes to women.'

  Here we go, Mike thought, he's been dying to confront me on my own, and now he's on the attack. Still, he decided, it was healthy that Muzza wanted to talk about something other than himself. Usually when the pills and the booze set in, his self-loathing was at its worst. Mike steeled himself.

  'Callous in what way, Muz?' he asked reasonably.

  'Well, I can't for the life of me understand how you're not cut up about Jo. Shit, you two were together – how long? Well over a year – more like eighteen months, wasn't it? Didn't you care about her at all?'

  'Of course I cared. And how do you know I'm not cut up?'

  Muzza laughed derisively as he poured himself another whisky, his hand a little unsteady by now. 'Christ, if you are, you've got a strange way of showing it. Spud says you fuck around like there's no tomorrow.'

  'So what am I supposed to do? Live like a monk?'

  Mike was starting to feel angry. What gave Muzza the right? If it had been anyone else, he'd have told them to mind their own bloody business and he'd have walked out. But he couldn't walk out on Muzza. Muzza was right about a couple of things. He was a cripple, and Mike did feel sorry for him.

  'Fair enough.'

  In his gathering bleariness, Muzza sensed his friend's anger, and he supposed it was warranted. But hell, Mike hadn't appreciated Jo – he'd taken her for granted.

  He took a slug of his drink – he was starting to feel sorry for himself, he always did around about this stage. It was his own envy talking, and he knew it. Christ, he'd loved Jo. He wondered if she'd ever guessed. Of course she hadn't, who was he kidding? Even though they were the same age, she'd treated him like a kid brother – right from the start, well before she'd met Mike. And of course when Casanova McAllister had arrived on the scene, no-one had got a look in, least of all him. He'd accepted it. Mike was Mike – you could hardly blame the bloke for being fatally attractive to women. But Jo Whitely deserved better than to become just another victim of the McAllister magnetism. What the hell, Muzza thought. Jo was gone, he was a cripple, and Mike sailed through life as always. What was the point in agonising over things that could never have been anyway?

  'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It's none of my business. You can tell me to shut up if you like.'

  'Shut up, Muz.'

  It was said firmly but good-naturedly, and Muzza shrugged agreement, although he would have liked to talk a bit more about Jo. He remembered when she'd come around to see him shortly after he'd moved into the house. She'd brought a pot plant – a housewarming present, she'd said. He looked at it sitting on the window sill – thriving – and recalled how she'd laughed. 'Devil's ivy,' she'd said, 'virtually indestructible. I'm so good at murdering pot plants, I only buy the foolproof variety.'

  She'd seemed so happy, he thought. She'd talked about Mike and the wonderful Christmas she'd spent with his family. What had happened? He'd like to hear Mike's side of the story – perhaps to understand things from his perspective. But then, perhaps not, he thought wearily. Shit, Mike didn't seem to have a perspective. Oh, who the hell cares, Muzza thought.

  'Okay.' He nodded. 'I've shut up.'

  Their eyes met and a truce was called. Mike was thankful to have avoided any further discussion about Jo. He was relieved, too, that Muzza's aggression seemed to have petered out. Muz looked tired now. He'd probably put himself to bed soon – he often did.

  But Muzza gained a second wind, hanging on for another two cigarettes and a further large whisky as he vented his anger about the general attitude towards returning Vietnam vets. He saw it in the streets, he said, he watched it on the TV, read it in the papers . . . even the old blokes at the RSL didn't show respect. The lack of recognition was everywhere you looked, and it enraged him.

  'The blokes come back shot up and shell-shocked and it's like they're supposed to apologise for having been there. What sort of a welcome home's that?'

  Mike sat in silence as Muzza raved on, his words starting to slur, his manner becoming agitated. He was working himself into a frenzy as he usually did when the drink and drugs had taken hold.

  'So it's not Gallipoli or the Somme, so it's not Tobruk or the Kokoda Trail, but those blokes over there are fighting on a bloody battlefield, mate, so you tell me the difference! They're looking down the barrel just like all the others did, and they deserve to be bloody well recognised for it.' Then the self-derision set in. 'Of course I'm not talking about me! Shit, what did I do? Fuck all. But the others! Well, you can see where I'm coming from, can't you? I mean, face it, I'm making sense, aren't I?'

  'Sure you are.'

  Mike's nod was placating. Muzza was ranting now. His energy would run out soon and he'd crash. He always did when he
got himself worked up like this. Sure enough, ten minutes later ...

  'Think I'll have a bit of a lie-down, I'm pissed.' Muzza's voice was weary, he'd come to a halt. He laughed drunkenly. 'No two ways about it, mate, I'm legless.' He said it every single time – he thought it was the funniest thing on earth. 'Bloody legless, I am, and that's a fact.' He laughed again as he wheeled himself off to the bedroom. 'You let yourself out, okay?'

  'Sure.' Mike crossed to the front door.

  'Hey, Mike ...' Muzza spun the chair about. 'Thanks for coming, mate, it was beaut to see you.'

  'No worries.' It was surprising, Mike thought, how suddenly sober Muzza appeared.

  'And thanks for inviting me along on the pub crawl. I appreciate that.'

  'So why don't you come? We'd really like you to.'

  Muzza smiled, and something in his expression told Mike that he knew there was no 'we' involved in the invitation. Pembo and Spud hadn't asked him on the pub crawl; the idea had been solely Mike's.

  'No, I'll give it a miss. I'll leave the partying to you blokes.' Muzza laughed, and all of a sudden he seemed drunk again. 'But hey! Call in and we'll have a piss-up, what do you say?'

  'We'll come around next week, the three of us, when Pembo's in town.'

  Muzza nodded and gave a thumbs up, but before he could wheel himself off, Mike added, 'And I'll call in more often on my own . . . if you'd like me to.'

  'Yeah. I would. I'd like it a lot.'

  Again he seemed sober; it was extraordinary, Mike thought. 'Right. Well, I'll see you, Muz.'

  'See you.' The wheelchair spun on the spot and Muzza disappeared.

  Mike rode the bike back to Claremont with caution. He'd skipped lunch and was aware of the effect of two large neat whiskies sitting on an empty stomach.

  He thought about Muzza. There was no reason to presume that today represented any particular break-through, but Muzza had certainly responded in a way he never did when Pembo and Spud were present. When the three of them called in, he played it tough, or ranted and raved himself into a state of exhaustion, or else he closed off altogether. Today had been different.

  Mike felt guilty that he hadn't visited Muzza more often on his own. He should have made a point of doing so – he knew that Muz had always considered him a closer friend than the others. But it had been easier somehow to pop in en masse.

  He recalled how offensive he'd found Muzza's caustic opening remark. He'd nearly turned around and walked out the door, he remembered. I thought you blokes liked to pity in numbers. That's what he'd said, and galling though the admission was, Mike realised he'd been right. It had been less confronting to arrive simply as 'one of the mates'.

  He'd reached Claremont railway station, and he turned into Bay View Terrace. But when he came to Stirling Highway he didn't cross over and continue down towards the river; he turned right instead and headed for Cottesloe. He'd catch a few waves, he decided.

  He picked up speed as he roared down the highway, enjoying the wind raking his hair – as usual he'd ignored the safety helmet. Muzza's whole attitude had been different today, he thought. The effects of the booze and the pills had been as predictable, but he'd wanted to make contact. Even his aggression, normally aimed at the world in general, had taken the form of a personal attack, and it had resulted in a strange reversal of behaviour. Today it had been Muzza who'd initiated the conversation and he who'd closed off.

  He shouldn't have pushed Muz away like that, he thought. He shouldn't have refused to talk about Jo, intrusive as he'd found the line of questioning. He'd sensed that Muzza had wanted to talk about her, and he should have obliged, it would have been good for Muz. After all, the bloke did have some rights – he and Jo had been close friends at uni.

  He turned into Eric Street and burned down the hill towards the ocean in the distance. The effect of the whiskies had worn off completely and he was enjoying the power of the bike.

  But what could he have told Muzza that he hadn't already? Jo had vanished without a trace and that had been it. He found himself feeling defensive as he recalled Muzza's scathing comments. So he'd got on with his life – what was wrong with that? Was he supposed to go into mourning? Sure, he rooted around – he'd had a number of women in the two months since Jo had gone. He'd even revisited the old Scarborough Beach boatshed. Not with Sophia, but with a girl he'd met at the open-air jazz festival. Just one-night stands, nothing that would inter-fere with his work. But did that make him a callous bastard? It was an unfair remark, Mike thought. He was honest with women, he always had been. He never pretended he was after anything other than sex.

  Marine Parade was up ahead and as he started to slow down, he felt Jo's arms about him, relaxing their grip. Damn it, he thought, she was back. It had taken him several weeks to get rid of the feeling of her riding pillion. Now she was back and it was all Muz's fault. What was it he'd said? Didn't you care for her at all? That was it – and it hadn't been a question, it had been an accusation. Well, bugger you, mate, of course I bloody cared!

  Christ alive, he thought, Jo had been the only woman he'd ever seen as a true friend. But he'd been honest with her too. She'd known that his work took precedence over a serious relationship – he'd never led her to believe otherwise. She'd said so herself in the note she'd left him. Did that make him a callous bastard? If so, at least he was an honest one. And Jo had understood that. It had been the greatest thing they'd shared and what he'd loved about her most – her scrupulous honesty and her respect for his.

  He pulled up outside the OBH, and felt Jo release her grip, heard her laugh in his ear. By now he was cursing Muzza. He'd closed the book on Jo. He'd told himself that it was just as well she'd left when she had; he'd never wanted to get involved, it was too early in his career. It had been all for the best, he'd persuaded himself, and he'd put her out of his mind. Now Muzza had hit a nerve. Muzza had successfully reminded him just how much he missed Jo.

  He took his bathers and towel from the pillion-seat compartment and headed for the changing rooms. Damn you, Muz, he thought, now I'll have to start erasing her all over again. But I will. And if that makes me a callous bastard, mate, then maybe you're right. Maybe that's just what I am.

  The following week, Ian Pemberton arrived and the boys' planned pub crawl started out, surprisingly enough, at the Killing Pen.

  'Hope you don't mind,' Spud said nonchalantly as the three shared a beer at the flat in the Esplanade, 'but I've arranged to meet Anthony Wilson at the Pen – he wants to introduce me to Gerrard Whitford.'

  Mike did mind – why should they all be forced to play Spud's games? 'Why don't Pembo and I catch up with you afterwards?' he said. 'We can meet in the main bar – or the beer garden if it's not too cold.'

  'Gerrard Whitford?' Ian's reaction was quite different. Whitford was the WA Minister for Tourism. 'Why didn't you tell me earlier?' He and Spud had been chatting over a beer for a good half hour before Mike's arrival. 'I'd like to meet him.'

  'Yes, I thought you might.'

  Spud's grin was confident and Mike gave up. He was outnumbered.

  'Mind you,' Spud said as he polished off his beer and stood, 'from what I've heard, he's the shag end of nasty.'

  The girls at the Sun Majestic didn't have one good word to say about Gerrard Whitford MP, who was a regular client at the brothel. Spud believed the girls implicitly. In his opinion, hookers were great judges of character.

  The elite Killing Pen was a poky little bar with standing room only, lean-high benches against the walls and an open window at the far end that gave access to the main bar. Men lounged about, smoking and drinking, while Steve's widow, Hazel McHenry, an extraordinarily attractive Eurasian woman of Indian descent, stood beside the window, greeting her clients and placing their orders with the barman on the other side. Money did not change hands, but was placed in the nearby dish. Anyone suspected of not adhering to the honour system of payment was ostracised forever from the Pen.